


This Devil's Workday

by Iridogorgia



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: And Peter Does Not Like It, Beck Haunts Parker, Beck is a Ghost, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Haunting, Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 02:15:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19861858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iridogorgia/pseuds/Iridogorgia
Summary: There really is no rest of the wicked.  Quentin Beck has some unfinished business, and most of it involves haunting Peter Parker.





	This Devil's Workday

**Author's Note:**

> I love a good haunting fic, and I just couldn't help myself. This is my first time writing for the MCU so there's a lot I probably won't know, but I'll try my best!

“Edith,” Peter’s voice was high and quaking, his fingertips trembling as they pressed against the sleek titanium frame, “Is this real?”

“I’m not sure what you mean, Peter. There are no projections or illusions present that I can see. You have a high level of cortisol in your system, but I’m not detecting any narcotics. Peter, are you hallucinating?” Her calm, pleasant voice was the least judgmental thing he’d ever heard, but his heart was threatening to beat out of his chest. His suit was on alert, his webs at the ready, and he felt his muscles shaking from the force of the adrenaline going through his bloodstream. His knuckles were dripping blood onto May’s carpet, a dent in the wall from where he’d lashed out.

Right in between his fist and the wall was the pale, shimmering form of Quentin Beck.

He raised a thick eyebrow and looked at the dent were his face would have been. “Ouch,” he drawled flatly, crossing his arms over his bloodstained motion capture suit. His wounds, those wounds, were fatal. He was dead. Quentin Beck was dead. His glass helmet was crushed, there were splinters caught in the skin of his face and some dust caught in his left eyelash that sparkled in the light. He was dead.

He was dead.

He was _dead._

Peter lowered the glasses and the blue tint faded, Edith’s concerned voice fading slightly.

He reached out with two shaking fingers, nails ragged and the torn skin on his knuckles already repairing themselves. He poked Beck in the chest, hard, but his fingers met only cold air. Distinctively cold, an environmental effect. There was _something_ there.

Beck looked down at Peter’s hand, fingers inside of his chest, and furrowed his brow. He looked around Peter’s shabby bedroom, sucked his teeth and turned around. Peter’s fingers remained where they were, going through Beck’s biceps and then his spine, before he came back around and Peter’s shaking hand ended where it had started. Right over where a heart should be.

“That’s interesting,” Beck murmured, blue eyes rendered flat and gray. All of him was gray. He was transparent, hovering about five inches off the floor, but his stance was firm. Sure, as if his feet were on solid ground.

Peter swallowed, opened and closed his mouth several times, and sat down heavily. His room was in disarray, halfway packed, and Happy was currently coordinating movers to come and discreetly clean out Aunt May’s apartment. They’d probably be moved out of New York, Peter wanted to convince Ned and MJ to come with him, he had a half written list on a coffee-stained notepad by his feet, but all of it faded against the dead man standing in his room.

“What’s wrong, Peter?” Beck’s smile was like a knife, sharp and ready to cut him. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” He crouched down, his legs parting slightly as his knees hit _nothing_ and he leaned in, towering over Peter as he shrunk back against his narrow bed.

Peter’s arm flung out and hit the edge of his suitcase, and the rough texture of it jolted him back into reality. The reveal. The illusion. The betrayal.

“You made it up! You _lied!”_ Peter whispered, furiously, the sound of May opening the front door, “My _family_ , you made up that video before you died and now _everyone_ knows who I am, what if anyone gets _killed_ because of-”

“All you had to do,” Beck whispered back, tauntingly, because Peter was sure nobody else could hear him, “Was walk away. All you had to do was go back to your class trip and refuse to engage. It would have worked. It was _designed_ to work. This is _your_ fault, Peter Parker. _Spiderman._ ”

Peter had nothing to say, no response to give, and he could only press himself back further into the mattress as Beck leaned even further forward. He was saved from having to respond to the taunt by May slinging the door open.

“Peter, are you- What are you doing?” Her panic turned to a maternal alarm as she looked at the wall, the smear of blood left in the drywall, and how pale his face was. He was still trembling, and she knelt immediately at his side. “Peter, it’s going to be okay. Happy’s here, movers are here, we just need to get everything packed up and we’re going to go. We might go stay with Pepper for awhile, Happy’s still finding out the safest place for us.” She rubbed his shoulder and reached down to hug him.

He took a minute to respond, then he nearly crushed her to him.

Over her shoulder, he glared at Quentin Beck, who had watched his pretty aunt with rapid interest from the moment she’d knelt down beside him. Her shirt was a little low cut, a little disheveled from the panic, and at the angle Beck was at…

Beck’s eyes slid pointedly down her frame, back up and he lazily caught Peter’s gaze. He winked and Peter’s face contorted in anger. “She’s cute,” Beck commented, leaning back on his haunches. “Too bad I didn’t think of becoming your…. She’s not your mom, she's your aunt, right? I wouldn’t have minded being your uncle.”

“Peter,” May flexed her shoulders and quietly, calmly, “You’re starting to hurt me, Peter.”

He immediately gentled his grip, his anger at Beck’s lurid remarks fading fast. “Sorry Aunt May, it’s just-”

“I understand.” She smiled and pulled back, standing in one smooth movement. “But we can’t waste any time, Peter, you have to pack. I have some boxes, and I don’t trust anyone else to handle the more…” She waved her hands, “Technological things of yours.”

Beck rolled his eyes and stood as well, hovering right behind her. She shivered as Beck brought his arms up and draped them loosely around her shoulders. He smiled down at Peter, “Wouldn’t we make a beautiful family?”

She stepped out of the circle of his embrace, his form sliding through her, and she rubbed her bare arms, “We need to move somewhere with heating, but it’s summer in New York, Peter. Why is your room so cold?”

“Why, indeed, Peter?” Beck was practically laughing at him, but he perched on the back of Peter’s computer chair and crossed his arms over his bloody chest. The stains were dark, but not red, but Peter had been there. He knew what color it should have been.

He was staring, and he’d been quiet for too long. May was expecting him to respond, and she looked at him in concern. “Peter?”

“Yes,” he blurted, “Yes, Aunt May, I’ll finish packing. Uh, can you bring me a few big boxes and some… some bubble wrap? Maybe? And can you send Happy in here if he’s… if he can spare the time?” Peter stood, unsteadily, and wiped his hands on his pants.

“Sure, Peter.” May looked him up and down one more time, hesitating in his entryway, before she forced herself to turn around and leave. She didn't shut the door behind her.

Peter and Beck were alone. Again. Peter glared and Beck smiled bright enough to glow.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Once I figure out where I want this to go, I'll update with the next chapter. Please let me know what you thought.


End file.
